


Seofon Lamrell Found Dead In Miami

by Confuzledsheep



Series: Storm Warning [4]
Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Dead People, Family Drama, Family Feels, Flashbacks, Introspection, It's emo be warned, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Old dudes talking about the past, Past Relationship(s), There is an OC let me live he's important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 06:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16402715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Confuzledsheep/pseuds/Confuzledsheep
Summary: This was all a fucking ploy. He knew that.The pamphlets in his pocket were merely punchlines.





	1. Squall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Onus_Probandi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onus_Probandi/gifts), [vanishing_apples](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_apples/gifts).



> Y'all wanted to know more about Siete, so here ya go!
> 
> Yes, I did make an OC to be connected to Siete's story but also 1. This is my AU and 2. It's important for his story and also named after one of the sword warriors so I think I get at least some leeway there.
> 
> This is connected to the past two fics, so if something doesn't make sense here try reading the other two and then coming back to it.
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience!

This was all a fucking ploy. He knew that.

The pamphlets in his pocket were merely punchlines.

Truth be told he never wanted to go back there again, but a call from Octo made him rethink it. He hadn’t seen him in maybe 6 years, and neither of them were getting any younger.

He had unfinished business he left down there.

The airline seat was not the most comfortable thing in the world, but he wouldn’t vocalize that.

_Come on Seofon, you’re not that old yet…_

_Yet._

***

His gut was pulling him out of that hotel, into the rental car.

Ring tapping against the steering wheel, he fiddled with the keys. The small rainbow charm- a gift from Quatre after his first pride- would draw attention here. He should have removed it before he left.

If the white Prius didn’t already draw a large enough target on his back.

***

He almost forgot he owned this house now.

‘House’ was maybe generous. It was a cookie-cutter place, surrounded by just twisting trees, hardly a yard, doing nothing to block the noise of the neighbor’s Parrot rescue center.

He wondered how much it was worth now, now that the housing crash was pretty much over and done with. Not that he would ever sell it.

There was a university nearby. He could just move down here when Quatre finished his degree, give his house up north to him and Six.

Pressure tore at his chest, arms trembling as he put the key in the lock.

The house was full of ghosts of his own creation.

White sheets covered everything, draping over empty vases and picture frames.

He was the only one in the will. That’s why he was here.

The past called out to him with begging hands and sweet words and if he blinked slow enough he could still see him in the corners of his eyes.

He died here. Siete was the only one there.

His relatives came for the funeral, bringing empty well-wishes, prayer cards folded in pockets, too many rosaries to count.

_”Lord, we hope you grant this man mercy, save him from his vast sins, his services to our great country immeasurable.”_

They patted themselves on the back, sung their own praises for respecting this son of our great land, tragically fallen too soon. Tragically sinning. A homosexual in God’s own image. Claimed to be ‘open minded’ and ‘respectful’ to the man their perfect boy left behind.

Siete was glad the snake-tongued bastards didn’t get a damn penny.

Now he needed to figure out what to do with it all. Their unconfirmed union lead to seperate accounts for everything, stocks and bonds, investments, savings, checking, pension. All things he should have sorted out sooner, had he not panicked- bailed, flown as far away as he could, letting the ghosts fester and grow in his absence.

Red and tan checkerboard. Siete had no idea why he had a blanket that matched the tile in his cheap kitchen. Not like he had much choice in it.

Tears hit the dusty floors. They were going to build a house together- where Siete’s once stood, before the hurricane that ripped the shit trailer from the cinder blocks and threw everything he had of his Ma to the wind.

Siete sold the land to make sure he had money for the twins.

He would have _loved_ them. He always wanted kids. 

_”Ey. When this all shakes out, wanna have kids?”_

_Siete blinked, looking up from his risque magazine. “Like, adopt, or…”_

_He shrugged, working on another wood carving. A new one this time. It looked like a rabbit. “I don’t care really.”_

_“Where we gonna get the cash, we’re on the other side of the damn world.”_

_“We could save up.”_

_The ceiling was never that interesting to look at, but he had nowhere else to look- scantily clad men oiled up on glossy pages abandoned. “I mean. We could.”_

_“...I think a boy and a girl would be nice. If we adopted.”_

_A smile graced his face. “You got name ideas?”_

_“I mean, I always loved Thelma. Maybe Reina?”_

_“I like it.”_

_Small nicks in the dark wood started to bring tufts of fur to the surface, a small jackrabbit coming into form. “Wasn’t your Ma’s middle name Irving or somethin?”_

_“Yeah, it was Irving. I like Jackson.”_

_He nodded in agreement._

_“Whatcha makin?”_

_“Jackalope.”_

_“That one of those horned rabbits?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“...Wonder if they live out here.”_

_“If they do, I hope they eat the fucking spiders.”_

_“You and me both Sweetheart. You and me both.”_

Most of his carvings were in the workshop. A spare few in the rest of the house.

Siete kept one in his room up north. A cockatoo. That was his nickname for him, Cockatoo. 

The jackalope was hidden behind a vase on a bookshelf in the living room. He was sure Tien and Quatre never noticed it. He always did.

Quatre the Rabbit, and Tien the Elk.

He should get out of this house, he knew that. He had a few more stops to hit. He would return for the night. 

There were no lights to flick off, no shoes to put on by the door.

No shoes of his own, anyway.

He covered the boots in a dishtowel all those years ago. They were two sizes too big for him, but he absolutely would slip them on in the mornings to grab the paper when he was dumb and forgot his slippers in the bedroom.

The door closed with a click, again fumbling for the key. The paint was starting to peel. 

Regardless of whether or not he moved, he would need to get that fixed.

That, and a whole lot of other things.

***

Grass was not a natural thing in these parts.

Tombstones were not natural either, he reasoned. Neither were the Dahlias or the deep red roses he placed over the finely carved marble. 

The neighboring spot was not full of weeds yet, but he liked to think his corpse would attract a great many plants. 

He should order Quatre and Tien to never cut the grass by his grave. If they ever came down to visit it.

The tab of state death records was pulled up on his phone. Every few months he would check to see if she kicked the bucket yet.

That was likely very rude- he knew she was younger than Octo, by a decent margin to boot.

She would be 54 this year. And Siete had just turned 38. 

If he knew how old Octo was, he would do the math, but he never bothered to ask.

He should do that.

Closing the tab, he made an alert on his phone.

_‘See if Octo is Over the Hill Yet’_

***

Returning was stupid. Drinking until sunrise was foolish.

He should not be entangled in the dusty sheet over the couch, open and empty bottles of wine rolling across the floor.

Merak was never a man for beer. They drank it back east because it was the only rations they were given, but the minute he was cleared to drink he ordered Siete to purchase 200$ worth of wine. An additional 150$ were purchased online.

It was such a ridiculous request- Octo had the gall to compare it to pregnancy cravings over a conference call, and Silva nearly beat him with a broom, Song being 3 months pregnant at the time- but there was something so sweet and domestic about it.

Merak and himself only knocked out two bottles that night, the former going on about the intricate flavors and floral notes and all that bullshit, the latter simply watching and nodding, leaning on the coffee table of the home- _their_ home, with all the connotations and intricacies that come with it- enraptured with the way his beloved moved and spoke and smiled.

Those time were very different, and very difficult. They woke up and ungodly times, clutching each other in fear, tears and screams filling the room because the guns never stopped firing for them. The smoke never cleared. 

He would see the vehicle shatter in slow motion, still hearing the ringing in his ears, the dust billowing, the spikes of pain in his stomach.

The darkness didn’t offer comfort when he awoke. Merak’s arms around him provided so much. Knowing he was there made it all so much better.

And then one day, he wasn’t.

And Siete didn’t know what to do with himself.

Should he move on? Salvage what he had left and find another love?

_“Ya shouldn’t worry ‘bout me. Take good care of yourself, Kay?”_

He didn’t know if he could. He didn’t know if he would be able to keep going after all of this. How much of himself would die with Merak?

_“Hey, come on now. Don’t give me that look. You’ll be ok without me. You always are!”_

But was he ok? Did it all turn out fine? He was _alone_. 

Alone in the empty house stuffed to the brim with ghosts.

Siete wasn’t a superstitious man, but Merak was. So was Octo, but he was probably secretly a goddamn shaman or something.

Of what, Siete could not be fucked to name or even guess.

Red wine spread through the fibers of his shirt. It meshed with the navy stripes and probably stained his undershirt. _Wife beater, that’s what they’re called. God knows why._

He knew why. He just didn’t want to think about that now.

_“You look good in blue.”_

_“Everyone looks good in blue Sweetheart.”_

_Merak smirked, ears flicking, snapping the dish towel against Siete’s ass. “You look **especially** good in it.~”_

_“You should be getting dressed to, Jesus. We’re going to a **wedding** you know.”_

_He turned back to the dishes. “We have a while.”_

_“Why are you doing Song and Silva’s dishes anyway?”_

_“Dunno. Good way to relax.”_

_Siete raised an eyebrow. “How much time we got?”_

_“Enough.”_

_“...Do I look **that** good in blue?”_

_“You look good in anything, Cockatoo.”_

_“Would you care to kill time while the newlyweds ain’t home?”_

_“Thought you would never ask.”_

That was the first time he ever wore a navy button-down. Merak was in gold and white- on Silva’s side of the party. He looked like the sun itself.

Song didn’t throw the bouquet blindly, she hurled it at his face. Some pollen got in his eye and he had an allergic reaction. Merak laughed as his face got red and he could hardly open his swollen eyelids. Flower petals made it under his collar and more yellow pollen dusted his black and silver jacket.

Merak made a highly inappropriate joke before kissing him in the car on the way to the reception. Song and Silva both pretended to throw up.

They were so _young._ Maybe war does that to people. Death looming over their head for two years- getting shot and blown up and almost dying- makes you want to move faster. Confirm the things you still have.

Song and Silva moved so fast because Silva didn’t know if Song was going to come back alive. For _five years_ after they tied the knot she had to live in worry and raise a child on her own.

Siete was amazed they didn’t try to kick Song out after she got married, but she was too good at her job. Too valuable of an asset to actively harass. 

The scum-eaters probably tried to, but the higher-ups knew better. People of her skill didn’t come along every day. Especially not these days.

And when they did come around they didn’t tend to stay.

Another bottle rolled to the floor. He should sleep in their bed.

He removed the sheets back then, stopping just short of burning them in the yard. They were folded in the closet. 

Stumbling to his feet he clung to the wall as he shuffled to the door at the end of the hall. He would probably throw a blanket over the mattress and call it good.

Everything still smelled like him. His cologne, his soaps, his… Siete could hardly attribute it so a single cause at this point. Maybe there was still a few bottles in a drawer somewhere but everything was so thickly coated with his scent it hardly mattered.

_”You should… check the bedside table-”_

_“No!”_

_“...Why?”_

_“I-if, If I take my eyes off you-”_

_Merak didn’t speak. A small smile graced his face, ears relaxing. He weakly squeezed Siete’s hand._

_They both knew it was coming. Death was on the other side of the bedroom wall, and they would make it through the plaster and wood despite anything Siete could ever attempt to do._

_“I love you.”_

_“I know you do-”_

_“I really love you Cockatoo.”_

_“I know!-”_

_“...Seofon Arthur Lamrell, would you want to become a Phecda?”_

_The air in his lungs was torn from him, and tears rushed into his eyes. “Are you-”_

_Merak nodded weakly. He wasn’t going to last another week, another evening. Siete would stay up all night just to be with him-_

The rings fit on their fingers perfectly, Siete managing to wiggle Merak’s on despite all the tubes and wires.

He didn’t turn the light off that night, staying as close as he could to him, the man he loved, the man he _lived_ for. 

He swore to himself he would stay up till sunrise, keep guard over Merak’s peacefully sleeping body.

He awoke to orange and pink and red flooding through the window and for once he woke up in a painfully cold bed.

The sunrise was the loneliest time of the day.


	2. Local Winds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those were hard times. The past was always hard.
> 
> All times are hard times when you don't have perspective.
> 
> All times are good times when you're blind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey thanks for sticking with this till the end!!! I know it's a lot of sad stuff but yanno what? I wanted to write sad stuff so I did!

They didn't know a fucking thing. 

The car sputtered to life, and Siete hoped the poor thing could take a beating.

Quatre looked at him with such a thick betrayal, Like Siete had shot Six on the spot. Something about the booze or the remainders of cologne offended him greatly. He would have claimed Siete had slept with Six had the poor Erune not had an alibi.

They did not know of the vast chunks pulled from his chest, of the painful years he spent watching the love of his life _die_ in front of his eyes.

Siete would only allow himself to fall into madness for one reason, and one reason alone. It wouldn't be the war or the boot camp or the mine. It wouldn't be the surgery or the hurricane or the penniless years. It wouldn't be the backdoor payments or shady deals with the Karm family.

It would be him. It would always be his death. Siete would allow himself to cling to one fragment of the past, and that was it. His own impending death was trivial, inevitable.

Merak’s death would haunt him until the day his tortured eyes no longer opened. 

He never told them about his life. His childhood. What he suffered to stand before them. He never spoke of his unknown father and why they never had a grandmother.

He missed her, no doubt in his mind. He missed her as much as he should have, which was very little. The bare minimum to still have some semblance of respect for the long dead.

She was never of her age or time. She never was on time, truth be told. She arrived 45 minutes late when he came home, shrapnel heavy in his stomach, Merak drooling on his shoulder in the airport arrivals wing.

Those were hard times. The past was always hard.

All times are hard times when you don't have perspective.

All times are good times when you're blind.

Siete was a man. A well educated one, two kids, a home, a job. Military service. Sixty years earlier he would have been a catch beyond belief.

Words were cheap when your vocabulary began to border on inexhaustible. 

Past sunrises blinding him through the windshield of the cheap, sky blue Ford Taurus were indescribable. 

There was no word cheap enough to be attributed to them.

He did not need to go to those places back then, become involved in such people. 

Money was money, and he had two new mouths to feed. The thought of dipping into Merak’s accounts terrified him.

So he took the Karm job.

It was flexible, paid well, and they didn’t care that he was seconds away from his organs rupturing at any given moment.

His coworkers were hardasses, almost entirely ex-cop or ex-military, just his kind of men.

He met others during that time of his life- names and faces blurring together in his mind.

She had a name. He heard it once or twice before.

He couldn't be fucked to remember it. In the memories she was referred to as Dahlia. There was a murder case called something along those lines.

Smoke and mirrors and bad remixes and glitter. Cheap, disgusting mixed drinks that pulled at the metal in his bones. There was no reason for her to show him such favor. Maybe she thought he was cheap and easy. Prey ripe for the taking. A man in a spot of weakness, the slip of a hip and a hand all it would take for him to crumble, the money and emotions pouring into her willing mouth.

Dahlia was hot. According to the straight men around him. Some called her an angel, others a devil.

There was one angel of a feminine form in this world. And it was not Dahlia. Not even close.

She moved in the most enticing way, moving so unnaturally- it was like a battlefield, there was no way he could look away from the carnage. 

His attendance of these places were habit, a way to establish hollow bonds with teammates. Self-assured ties of masculinity that shattered with a stiff breeze.

Bodyguards, scarred and mean and scared. They did not fear death, they feared themselves. They feared each other. Siete slept with a few of them. Each were much more afraid of him after the fact.

Dahlia wanted to be those men. She wanted to weasel her way into his heart. Not that he would ever let her. He was a challenge to her, the only one she had yet to crack.

Crawling into his lap uninvited, whispering about how he couldn't touch her, purring like it was something he could not resist. He would sip at the acidic whiskey in his glass, eyes refusing to leave her. 

She was a woman worth careful study, but not worth valuable words. Smooth, supple skin of a fish, breasts the elasticity of overripe fruits. Tongue thin and lips thinner, snakes likely more attractive. Skinny hips that were more fake than Tien and Quatre's favorite dolls. Supposedly she had an ass, but he could hardly feel more than bone through his slacks. Legs like grass, feet bent and pinned at unnatural angles.

Unattractive in the highest degree.

He was a man with children, he shouldn't be here. They were teenagers now, but that didn't matter. He had responsibilities and was now looking after a rich kid with a puppy crush.

No amount of favoritism and disgusting lipstick kisses and shitty sweet nothings could make him stay. There wasn’t a damn thing that woman could give him.

When the Karm job went belly-up he never saw her again. Good riddance.

He wondered what happened to her. She probably died, truth be told. Women who cared too much about him didn’t really end up in good places.

He hoped that Song, Nio, and Tien would be the exceptions.

Nio hadn’t been in contact for a long time. Probably all his talks of death scared her. She hated the dead patients. She couldn’t bear to see Merak in a coffin.

Or _him_ , for that matter.

The dirt and mud covered the white car, and he really should have changed his clothes, but he didn’t care. Octo wouldn’t care.

“Been a while kid.”

“I could say the same to you, Big guy.” Siete grinned, striding up the worn wooden steps. They were a stone's throw from the swamps. You could smell it, thick and hot- filling the air and his lungs, weighing it down and making him drown.

It was good to be home.

Octo was sitting on a wooden chair on the porch, beer on the railing, knitting in hand. Why someone would take up knitting in an area like this was beyond him, but Siete never would dream of bringing that up.

“There’s a beer or two in the cooler.”

“Thank ‘ya, don’t mind if I do~”

The plastic creaked under his weight as he sat down next to the older man. The crack of metal rang out over the clearing around the house.

“You bring the kids down?”

“Yep. Wanted to bring ‘em down before I kicked it.”

“You’re 38 Seofon.”

Siete took a sip of his cheap beer, smiling out into the tangled trees and hanging moss.

“I’ll be dead by 50 Octo. Maybe 55, 60, if I’m lucky.”

Octo couldn’t look at him. 

“I’ll only be with them for 25 years. Ain’t that tragic?”

He kept watching, beer in hand.

“I’ll only be without him for 30 though. I don’t believe in your god, but there better be an afterlife or I’m gonna be pretty pissed.”

“Did you tell them. About him?”

Siete shook his head, took a drag of his cigarette. He hadn’t smoked in years. Only when he was traveling would he allow it, and only during the period of time that would allow the smoke and acid to vanish by the time he returned home.

He would let the storms wash it away.

“No.”

“Why not.”

“I don’t want them to know of the missing pieces. Not now, at least.”

“Don’t give them an incomplete puzzle when you kick the fucking bucket.”

Octo’s language surprised him, his eyebrows perking up.

“Don’t screw them over like that. They aren’t supposed to pick up your damn puzzle. Give them the full picture and then die.”

“What do ya think they’ll do?”

“Fill it in. Chop it up, mash it together. We are both men who can’t afford such luxuries upon our past.”

Siete was silent, ring tapping against the cheap can. He had used hundreds of these things as target practice. They both did. Octo taught him how to shoot when he was a child, barely 16, struggling with love and sex and death. When the cans grew boring they shot pythons. The big ones brought them bounties. Park rangers would pass them a dollar or two if they brought them a head- or even better, a full 200 pound adult.

That was the past. This is now.

Three, reduced down to two and a few fragments.

“Did you visit him?”

Siete smiled, looking at how the smoke from his lips dissolved into the sky. “Yeah. Had to clean it up. No one ever bothered to leave flowers for him.”

“That’s because they disowned him.”

“Trust me Oct. I’m aware if that, I’m aware.”

Octo stared at the clearing. “There’s an empty plot next to his.”

“Yep. That’s mine. I bought a pair. When I buried him.”

The sounds of the swamp slipped through the measly chain link fence, filling the gaps in their conversation.

“That’s why they sacked me.”

“The relationship?”

Siete nodded. His smirk seemed out of place, ring shining in the Cloudy weather, ash falling into his lap. “Yep. They claimed I was unfit for combat, which was absolutely true; but they wanted to kick me way earlier. They wanted to kick both of us, but I was brains. They don’t want the smart ones.”

The draph was about to respond, but Sarasa slipped onto the porch, screen door clanging. “Hey, Eahta!”

“Yea?”

“Storms comin. Two days out. Probably child’s play but we got… yanno. Guests.” She said, gesturing to Siete.

Octo nodded. “Stay updated. Let’s plan in the morning.”

“I got food, we don’t need to make a grocery run. If we leavin we evacuatin.”

He just nodded again. Sarasa understood, going back into the house. Likely to obsess over the radio until Fif expressed the slightest amount of annoyance.

“I’ll drag the kids over. Doubt the Motel will be a good option if there’s gonna be a baby storm.”

Octo raised an eyebrow. “This place is a piece of shit clapboard shack.”

“If we lived through storms worse than this one in tents and trailer homes, I think we’ll do okay.”

“...Fine. Bring ‘em over. Then tell them the truth.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comment, Kudo, Yell at me, whatever I don't care.
> 
> I have a very messy [Twitter!!](https://twitter.com/ConfuzzledSheep?lang=en) where you can yell at me!
> 
> See y'all later!


End file.
